


Stagnant

by Tormented_Gale



Category: Tales of the Abyss
Genre: Self-Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 08:44:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3522902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tormented_Gale/pseuds/Tormented_Gale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hates being bored. He hates being inactive. And he hates that there's little to be done about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stagnant

Waiting. He hates waiting. He hates a lot of things, but inaction might as well be the worst thing anyone can do, and he includes himself in that estimation. He pushes his men and women hard, harder, as hard as he can, because it’s the only way they’ll be ready. Right now, he thinks, they are sleeping, so perhaps it is not an entire waste of time, but there are far more important things to be doing than closing one’s eyes.

So he sits at his desk, waiting. For what, he isn’t entirely sure. Orders? Perhaps. Something unexpected? Always, but it hardly happens, not anymore. Things are… organized, which he supposes is good - he likes organization, after all - and it makes his duties much easier, much quicker to accomplish, but there lies the problem: he is bored.

Boredom leads to trouble for children, but he is no child, whatever others might think of his body. He finds something to keep his attention, or at least, that is his normal behavior. Tonight, however, his gaze darts over books he has yet to finish, piles of paperwork begging for attention, documents left to gather dust until he eventually decides to bother with it, and he cannot seem to find a single thing to catch his interest. His fingers linger over the page he recalls - “The proper casting of an arte should start with a firm set of feet on the ground, and…” - and scoffs to himself. The idiot that wrote the book should be hanged; no one would survive following those instructions.

A loud groan eventually leaves him and he flops back, ears ringing with silence and frustration balled up in his clenched fists. Nothing. A famed, intelligent, fervent tactician, yet he has nothing to keep his mind occupied for more than a few seconds. He pushes himself to his feet, finds his hand closing around his doorknob, and before he knows it, he is wandering the hallway.

Outside the windows, night has fully taken the world, the moonlight hardly enough for the average person to see by. The stars are beautiful and he takes a moment to admire them. Even he, who is only disgusted by pretty much everything this world has to offer, must admit to some begrudging affection for the night sky. It represents what peace he can think of, and in the soft, gentle light, he can disappear and be a terrified, lonely boy who knows he will not survive long enough to see the point of existence.

He does not realize his feet have stopped him at a window, his hand reaches for the cool glass brushed by a soft fog, and he presses his forehead to it like it is an old friend. His breath further mists the glass and he breathes in the nipping air so much and so deeply that it burns his lungs. There is a momentary sanctuary here, so far removed yet so close to everything that constantly surrounds him, and though it is so quick and so fleeting, he allows the slip in his demeanor.

Then he is standing, standing tall, defiant eyes straight ahead as if daring the darkness to fight him and try to claim him as it always does. He knows what awaits him in the dead of night when his eyes are closed, his breathing soft, his mind afield, and he will not partake of it tonight. Waking up crying out and clutching at blankets will not disturb his soldiers, not with such a campaign ahead of them. He needs them in perfect condition. Besides, sleep is no companion, no ally. It’s a demon, a spirit hellbent on destroying his threadbare sanity, and he will not give it the satisfaction of victory.

A grim smile flickers on his lips as he proudly straightens his back and stalks down the corridor, alone, calm and controlled and masked without anything physical. The silence is broken only by the guards outside, their footfalls a music of their own, and he feels his heart begin to beat in time with their rhythm. His black coat, for the white would be too conspicuous, flows behind him like a set of large wings, dragging along dirt-encrusted floors that a mop can hardly effect.

"Sir?"

He pauses, looks over his shoulder. There, in the doorway of a nearby room, stands a man who clearly has just woken. Tousled hair and bloodshot eyes, hunched shoulders and barely suppressed yawns - Sync rolls his eyes, annoyed that such quiet footsteps managed to wake one of the soldiers. Perhaps he was not as silent as he thought; had he let his emotions get away from him?

"Yes?" he snaps, and the soldiers starts, clearly not expecting the response.

"Err - sir - uh -"

"If you have nothing to say to me, go back to bed. There is a mission to be completed to begin at dawn."

"S-Sir, yes, sir!"

The sleep-deprived, or perhaps sleepless, man returns to his room and quickly closes the door behind him. The restless general glares at his feet like it is entirely their fault and begins his short trek back towards his room. 

He pauses suddenly, hand clenched again on the doorknob, and looks back to the firmly shut door of the soldier. Mute desperation briefly claws at the inside of his throat, a shout and cry and growl all trying to sound in the empty space before him, yet he cannot express what it is, this feeling that attempts to escape without any hope of being free. It is that part of himself that wishes foolishly to speak with that soldier, to talk of the restless night, to perhaps play a game of cards or just reach out for a brief second to feel a connection with another human being.

Then he laughs, he laughs and laughs and laughs until the tears drip down his face, and retreats to the void of his room, where such meager furnishings have never looked so evil or disgusting before to him, and he resigns himself to laying on his bed. His eyes lock on some indiscriminate point on the ceiling, and he chuckles again to himself, mirthlessly, while the darkness begins to descend. Whether he likes it or not, he will fall to the demon, and they will combat in his dreams, and he will lose, like always.

There is something strangely comforting in that thought, despite the lack of comfort that surrounds him always. He shuts his eyes, and as he slips away, he cannot help but wonder why he would wish for any kind of connection to fools who are just as dead as himself.

They are simply unaware of it.


End file.
